Our Love was Made for Movie Screens
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: She's washed her hands a lot in the past thirty-six hours. [Post 2x18, AU]


/

**A/N: I am so not happy with how this piece turned out, but I'm posting it because I don't know how to fix what I don't like about it. Alas, have it. Have the feels. *grumbles***

**Sometimes, I really hate this ship. (Kidding. I'd die for it.)**

**Disclaimed.**

* * *

And suddenly she is nine-years-old again.

Squeezed onto a dilapidated couch with frayed cushions, creaking house with chipped blue paint, depths of Nebraska and yellow light, must've been— must've been summer movie night.

"Dad," she moans, tears hot in eyes that she covers with small, trembling fists of frustration, of horror. The blonde heroine screams loud in her ears, all the begging; all the gunfire. "Dad, turn it off. I don't want to watch anymore."

"Butterball, there's only about five minutes left," Sam soothes low, twining his arm around her body and pulling her close. King Kong roars once; one last plead from Anne. The fall. Lizzie watches the fall, whimpers as the fat drops roll down her cheeks, and then the shot goes to the body, to the monstrous ape lying in the street with cameras and unassuming people watching, pointing, it wasn't the guns but the beauty, and he wasn't a beast, he wasn't supposed to die like this, and why wasn't Anne stopping them. And no, no—

.

"No," her mouth moves, but there's no sound coming out.

Somehow, they managed to get Red into the back of the car, and the crimson is soaking the seats.

Everything smells like Red's blood, copper and iron, and oh God. He's losing too much blood, and she can't take it back. She can't put it back in, can't swallow the words she said, and no.

_I want it all to stop._

"I didn't mean it," she whimpers, staring at his lips, and her scarf is supposed to be white, but it's soaked warm and sticky, and no. Oh, why did she say that? She did this. Some deity heard her and cupid has a gun, and there's planes and fighter pilots that shot Red down from the sky, and, "I didn't mean it."

Dembe is digging out his phone to call somebody, anybody, and Lizzie knows it's not the nearest trauma center because nothing can ever be good and nothing can ever be simple. Red is beneath her hands and his eyes are closed as if in death, but he's not dead. "No."

His heart still thumps, weakly, beneath his ruined dress shirt.

It hits her that she's never touched him like this before. Been close like this before. She stares at the silvery chest hair peeking out, focuses on his thin lips, and it's all wrong. Too much red, and she doesn't know how there's so much. The body can only hold so much.

There's too much blood, and she _sees _that. She knows that. She wants it to be a joke, blood bags popped beneath his vest, but he's gasping and his skin is very white and there's not makeup, no Hollywood. He's not begging for her to understand with his last breath, but then—

Lizzie feels it when his heart stops.

She's trying to say, "Dembe, hurry, help, now. Now."

But it comes out as, "Red. _Red, please." _

Blooming roses everywhere. Ashes, ashes.

He fell. She keeps seeing him fall and the everything is blurring and wet around her, and she's got his blood smeared everywhere, can practically taste it, and Dembe is suddenly taking Red from where he's slumped in the back seat. They're at the safe house, and Lizzie watches Red's life coat the door handle when she helps Dembe get inside, and no.

No, he's going to die, and Lizzie watches Dembe's crumpled, grimace of a face heave with every step, and Red's long fingers drip drop, Hansel and Gretel. Limp. And Lizzie hears shuffling, hears—

She goes for her gun, but someone grabs her wrist.

He's going to die, and there are people she's never seen before, people she doesn't trust. She has to protect him, and suddenly she can't see Dembe because he's disappeared into the study with two men, and no, no. She can't let him out of her sight, because he's going to leave forever.

His heart isn't beating, and even if they've hurt him, she thinks they might as well have killed her too, and—

Mr. Kaplan cups her face, tries to get her to focus.

"Elizabeth, they're helping him. Come now, dearie. We need to get you cleaned up."

She doesn't recognize the sound of her own voice.

Far off, small. Like a child's.

"I didn't mean it," her whisper cracks over the sound of people muttering. "I didn't mean it."

"Of course you didn't," Kate soothes, even though, like Sam, she thinks Lizzie is being silly, being scattered. "Now, come on."

"I didn't _mean _it."

.

For her thesis, she interviewed women with husbands on death row.

They all talked about how sacrifice, about soul mates, about phantom pain.

Lizzie started imagining the needle as the tip of the Empire State Building.

_You know you love somebody when you'd rather die with them than live without them. _

(Lizzie wishes the sniper had gotten her, too.)

.

They won't let her in to see him. Dembe's dark eyes are hard, mouth drawn taut.

"He's resting, Elizabeth. You owe him that much."

Dembe doesn't realize that she blames herself enough for the both of them.

In the guest bedroom's bathroom, there's the exact brand of shampoo she uses. In the drawers, there's clothing in her size. The sheets are high thread count, and a vase of fresh daisies rests on the night stand. Lizzie doesn't know if she has the mental stability to drive back to the motel, doesn't know if she has the voice to call a cab. So she stays, of course. Of course she stays.

It's not even eight o'clock and there's a network of high-value assets for the FBI to turn downstairs, and Lizzie's hair still hangs, wet. Bangs flopping in her eyes. Teeth chattering.

The white, expensive carpet is hard on her knees.

She bows her head, entwines her fingers. Tries to remember the words, because it's been so long.

"Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee—

.

She dreams of a soft, green meadow. Sunshine and the light breaking through the tops of the trees. There's a checkered picnic blanket, and his sunglasses cover his eyes as he leans over her. The weight of him against her chest. A good kind of halting. A good kind of rectification.

He leans in, and she can smell the wildflowers and hear the birds, and his cologne makes the hair on her arms stand. She plays with the fuzz at the nape of his neck. He is so, so close.

"Lizzie," he says her name.

_Lizzie. Lizzie. _

He leans in to kiss away her tears. "There's no need for this. I'm right here."

When he kisses her mouth, she can taste the blood on his lips.

His smile a massacre in a daydream, and far off, she can hear somebody begging, pleading—

.

"He's not awake yet," Dembe tells her. She's forgotten to put on make-up, doesn't think it makes any difference. "Go into the office. Raymond would want you to go on as normal."

Periodically, her fingers flitter across her palm.

She can't count on two hands the amount of times she's turned on a sink in the past thirty-six hours.

.

There's an empty bottle of wine perched on the oak of her desk.

Lizzie watches it. Numb. Stupid. She's been so stupid. Ressler asks her something.

She doesn't hear.

.

It's half past three by the time she gets the call. She tears out of the Post Office faster than Cooper can ask, faster than Ressler or Samar can follow. Her hands shake and shake at the wheel, and she almost causes three different wrecks. It's not her fault. (She was born to be Anne Darrow, pretty eyes and sacrifice in her veins, pleading, pleading. _Leave him alone, you leave him alone_.)

.

They've cleaned up, at least.

The people are gone, save a security team of three men the size of Dembe. Big guns, stern exteriors.

She doesn't notice them, really.

Dembe tells her Red is conscious. No brain damage. No consequence, 'sides a new scar, damaged lung. The doctor that operated was a man Red met in Mexico. No license, but steady hands. Lizzie peeks inside the door, shoulders in. Sees his face, and oh.

The sound that falls from her lips isn't entirely dignified.

.

"I brought you music," she offers the headphones. Timid. "If you want—

His eyes are very dim. "Lizzie."

She drops the electronic back into her purse, leans in. There's color in his cheeks again, and his lips look soft and kissable. She's never thought of it like that, but now she can't stop, and everything is rust and stardust, and she keeps seeing him fall, and no.

No, the next time—

If there is ever a next time—

She'll be dying with him, thank you very much.

Red opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off by grabbing his hand, careful of his IV.

"I was so angry," she starts, cocking her head. "All I wanted was to give you The Fulcrum and never see you again. When Tom told me you hired him, I realized that I had no one in the world that I could trust. I realized that I was alone, and—

"Lizzie—

"I'm not," she relents, hoarse. His eyes tinge red. "I have you, and I didn't realize it until they tried to take you away from me. Permanently."

And there, that last word, that's when the dam breaks and she convulses, and—

He winces as he shifts to rub his heavy thumb on the flat of her soft cheek, and Lizzie leans into it like a vulnerable animal, and God, she can't help herself. "Lizzie, I'm sorry that I—

"It doesn't matter," she cuts him off, sharp, grit. Her eyes flash, teeth clenching. "It doesn't matter what we are, or what we aren't. It doesn't matter what you've done, or what you will do, okay? Because you _have me. _I am not leaving you. I am never going to ask you to leave. So deal with that."

She chuckles wetly, and he looks sad, so sad. Drooping, a pitiful bulldog, and no. No. He's stroking her scarred hand, and she leans in, quick. To kiss his wrist. To press her lips to his skin and give him proof, and he freezes just as her lips smack.

Her hair fans out onto the bed, tickles his arm in an auburn halo. Her eyes are drawn up at her bowed head, and Lizzie closes her eyes to say the words that should be etched into stone, words that live in her chest and give her breath. Words that she tried to say but wouldn't come out in the back of the Mercedes, him bleeding out, staining her soul with the life of something beautiful, something unlived.

"If they take you, they're taking me too."

.

He cups her jaw as if he's cradling something fragile, and maybe he is. Liz inhales raggedly when he meets her gaze, all wet, pulls her so that she's closer, beckons, beckons. His breath puffs against her cheek, and she turns, and he leans. When they kiss, they keep their eyes wide open, open-mouthed, tasting, tasting. No trace of copper, of iron. No death.

Lizzie thinks Raymond Reddington tastes like life and holy things.

She imagines them with their toes at the edge of the Empire State Building.

Together, hands held tight. They won't fall. They'll jump.

(This is their first kiss, and this kiss like a branding, the only memory they'll remember if they ever die.

_Leave us alone, _she thinks, and kisses him harder._ You leave us alone.)_

_/_

_/_

_/_

fin.


End file.
